The house is quiet again.

The ticking of the clock in the living room is louder than I remember it being.

I don’t know why I check my phone like I mean something to someone.

And I don’t know why I’m writing another poem about feeling lonely.  Are you feeling lonely, too?

Why do my eyes water when I’m alone in my room?

Why doesn’t anyone miss me?

I don’t want to leave the house as much anymore.

I’m scared of running into my ex-boyfriend.

I don’t know if anyone would want to read my writing anymore.

How many more tears will be released from my eyes until I can say that I’m drowning in them?

The night is starting to feel better than the morning because the night has this calmness that the morning can never attain.

I like staying up late because it means I can think in peace.

I read romance novels and sometimes think, “When will it be my turn?”

The house is quiet again.

I don’t know how many jobs I have to apply to before I finally get an interview.  An interview.

What if I don’t write any prose anymore?

I think I’m drowning in my own tears.